Spider Lines

By Terry Trafton

On a sunny fall morning in Southern Indiana, artist Ben Manning has just bought a house that continues to be occupied by its previous owner, Anna Atwood. At first, he thinks the image of the young woman on the stairway is an illusion, a distortion of light and shadow. As days pass, Anna’s appearances begin to frighten both Ben and his friend Jenna Newland, especially after Anna warns them that the house is a living thing with unimaginable powers. After learning Anna’s incredible secret, Jenna realizes Ben is slipping into another time, and that his obsession with this enigmatic woman is evident in the portrait he is painting––a portrait of a woman without eyes.
After continued paranormal occurrences, both inside and outside Atwood House, Dr. Adrian White and parapsychologist, Liz Raymond, attempt to solve what has become a mystery as impossible as it is provocative. Despite Anna’s warning that something monstrous is buried beneath the lawns of Atwood House, digging begins, and what’s uncovered is more shocking than any of them anticipated. An eccentric scientist, Charlie Chase, connects his work on a classified government project known as Firefly, to the strange occurrences at Atwood House. A government man, known only as Smith, wants to use Chase’s research to establish military hegemony. Even when the truth is revealed, it suggests realities that not one of them is prepared to accept It is knowledge so extraordinary that it challenges predominate theories of space and time and becomes a major threat to national security.
Strange happenings, profound revelations, and exciting character interactions are guaranteed to keep readers engaged in this page-turning adventure, which brings the paranormal closer to scientific fact. Above all else, Spider Lines remains a sensitive love story about a man fascinated by the mystery of Anna Atwood who is intent on turning him away from the love of the only woman who can save him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Jul 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642370270

Book preview

T.T.

Chapter 1

As a rose-colored moon began to fade pale and small, an extraordinary event was taking hold of this bizarre and remarkably uncommon night. Without warning, sharp slashing claws lacerated the sky, ripping and shredding the very fabric of space and time. Lightning flashed. Thunder was so loud and intimidating that words spoken among the crew were too indistinct to be fully comprehended. In this freakish eerie chaos, a gaping mouth belched fire, before its flaming lips snapped shut with tremendous force. The beast was alive—its gluttony rapacious as it devoured the starry night. A n enormous rupture—bulged increasingly wider, until reddish-black walls resembling molten rock appeared. The craft was being compressed, squeezed on all sides, sucked into a violently–churning vortex. As it was hurtled deeper into space, a heavy metallic fog clung tenaciously to its exterior skin.

The sky, an explosion of vivid surrealistic colors, was becoming increasingly hostile. A thrashing bludgeoning force so devastating and maniacal, it had the power to extinguish starlight and obliterate entire constellations. As a whirlpool of unbridled energy spun insanely into a funnel of concentric circles spinning counterclockwise, stars wobbled loosely on their cosmic axis. It would not be long before the sky became a debris field of untethered floaters, a wasteland of macabre images contorted grotesquely into an impossibly real nightmare.

Smoke! A rancid burning sensation filled their nostrils. White billowing smoke, increasingly intense, made it difficult to see the navigation screens clearly. Extreme vibrations in the controls, discernable malfunctions and failures in the instrument panels, as spikey red lines convulsed into heavy black circles across each screen. Other monitors showed a series of thin configurations resembling cobwebs. As seconds passed, as the spidery lines scrambled erratically into meaningless data, resignation took hold of each crew member—its grip severe, unrelenting. There was no attempt to conceal what each was thinking.

Panic! The craft could not survive much longer. They prepared for the inevitable. There would be no change of course. For them, home would soon be nothing more than a swarm of cruel and mysterious shadows. But when the images swirling around them began to melt into a stony-gray haze, the craft steadied momentarily. An uneasy calm set in long enough for them to distinguish pinwheels of green light, which resembled deformed eyes slowly converging into one enormous unblinking eye.

If it was the eye of God, in its gaze was fierceness, and no hint of absolution. Unable to escape the gaze of the horrible and foreboding eye, each knew what had happened was a catastrophic breach of the space–time continuum, an aberrant twist of fate that waited to apprehend their identities. Impossible as it was, the three travelers had been transported to another time and place. They had entered a hole in the sky, a deep black hole filled with new and exotic starlight.

With the beast finally gorged and glutted, and a tumultuous sky caving in behind them, they brushed smoke from their visors, in a desperate attempt to see what was ahead of them. As frightening as their thoughts were, the possibility that they might survive the crash brought a momentary sense of hope. Descent was coming too fast. Still, the open space beside the water might be large enough to make a controlled landing.

Then, without warning, a church steeple—a monolith that stretched high into a crisp moonlit sky. There was a devastating sound from deep below. The church steeple! The craft had collided with the church steeple. Then, as the craft struck the ground, strange vivid images of things to come.

A large mysterious house built near a church.

A stone foundation under which a sinister black shape was interred.

A stone bridge across a blue stream.

The portrait of a young woman without eyes.

The sky was noticeably off—stars blinking in the wrong places, constellations broken and scattered across an alien sky. The years were wrong. They had moved backward in time, and as they stood beneath a sky on fire with flaming stars, each searching among these stars for their place in the firmament, they realized again the impossibility of going home.

Chapter 2

It was a 30-minute drive on a sunny fall day to the law offices of Whitman, Whitman, and Burke in downtown Evansville, Indiana. Heading west on Riverside Drive, past the Casino Tropicana, or Aztar, as it was still referred to by many longtime customers and supporters of riverboat gambling, Ben recalled the time when he hit a large jackpot on one of the quarter slots. Ben Manning was a man who took chances and on that rainy July afternoon, with no specific place to go, he felt lucky. As he was leaving the casino, he dropped one last quarter into another slot. That’s when, much to his amazement, the lights started spinning. Later that same day, he deposited his winnings into a savings account at First Trust and Savings.

The Whitman, Whitman, and Burke offices were on the top floor of the Mason Building. From there the scenic view of the Big Bend in the Ohio River was stunning in the morning sunlight, and from this height the Kentucky landscape, with its long bean fields and cornfields, looked deceptively near. On the sandbar, just off the Kentucky shoreline, boats were anchored and people waded and splashed in the shallow water.

As he entered the office, Mr. Manning? asked a young woman politely, coming out from behind her desk to shake his hand.

Ben Manning, he replied.

Jenna Newland. Rikki is expecting you.

Her handshake was firm, and when she spoke, her smile was warm and genuine. So, we’re going to be neighbors.

Really?

My father owns the property south of Atwood House beyond the woods.

Before he could reply, Rikki Whitman appeared in the doorway of the conference room. Ben, won’t you please come in? Max is waiting, so let’s get the paperwork completed and get you back outside into that glorious sunshine.

Rikki was in her late 30s, expensively dressed, and with an air of urgency, she led him into the conference room where realtor Max Palmer was seated. The scent of perfume was heavy, or was it cologne? At length, he decided it was perfume.

Afternoon, Max said, looking up from the papers in front of him.

How are you, Max?

Right as rain, as they say.

Rikki gestured him toward a chair next to Max, then went around to the other side of the huge rosewood conference table. The perfume seemed to hang in a cloud around him, and for a moment he thought the heavy smell would trigger his asthma. As seconds passed, the sweet smell slowly dissipated.

Well, gentlemen, she began, as you know this is more of a formality than anything else. Ben, all the paperwork is in front of you. I’ll go over it and you can sign as we go through it. I’m sure you’ll find everything as we previously discussed. Then following a slight pause, she added, I’m happy to answer any questions at any time. She poured a glass of water, took a sip, and then ran the polished fingernails of one hand through her dark hair.

There were no questions. After the papers were signed and notarized by the perky secretary, copies were appropriately distributed and Max handed Ben three keys on a plastic key fob, saying, It’s all yours, Ben. Good luck with it.

I certainly hope I’ve made the right decision on this one, smiled Ben.

As you know, the house has been unoccupied for several years, so it’s going to need some work, Max stated.

With two feet of polished rosewood between them, Rikki and Jenna sat across the conference table from the two men. Ben looked from one to the other before speaking again. It’s the location I like . . . private, but still close to town.

Before he left the office, Jenna handed him a business card, which read, Klassy Kleen, and said, I do weekend work.

What do you mean? he asked before reading what was printed on the card.

Housework. It’s good supplementary income. My mobile number is on the card, so if you need help with that big house, please give me a call.

I will. Thank you, Jenna. I’m sure there is much to be done, so I’ll definitely be in touch.

He went back outside into the sunny day, thinking Jenna would work out fine. To say that he’d not had second thoughts about buying Atwood House would be an understatement. But as he had told them at the closing, he liked the location with its lofty view of the Ohio River, and five acres of wooded property offered plenty of privacy. It would be nice to leave behind the cramped quarters of the apartment in which he had lived and worked the past 12 years.

At 35, Ben was just beginning to experience some significant success as a landscape artist. Commissions were strong, and he had several profitable exhibitions behind him. Beyond that income was the $200,000 his uncle Keith had left him. There would be renovation money available, and if the paintings continued to sell, he’d be fine financially.

The door creaked, and creaked . . . and creaked a bit more, until it was open wide enough for him to enter a large foyer with a dusty pastoral scene hanging above a mahogany table. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw white sheets draped across furniture in what he knew had been used as a parlor. When he had seen the house that first time in late August, he was very much intimidated by its size. It was considerably more house than he needed, and the high ceilings gave the rooms an even more spacious impression.

The faded velvet curtains covering the tall parlor windows, and the even taller library windows, were heavy and kept out sunlight. The velvet was worn in several places. When they were new, these curtains would certainly have given the rooms an expensive ambience. They would have to go, though.

Electricity and water had been restored over a week ago. He’d contact Indiana Bell next week. Cable was an easy installation, so he could arrange for that next week as well. Getting the house back together would take time, but with some hired help, he hoped to have most of the work done by Christmas. Although he could do minor carpentry work, the more extensive renovations, like ceiling and roof repairs, and plumbing, would have to be done by professionals.

It was too soon to think about decorating the entire house. Ben had decided to keep some of the upstairs rooms closed until he knew what to do with them. Previous owners had left behind several pieces of furniture, which were included as part of the closing transaction. Max had told him that most of the furniture had been there since William Gilbert Atwood owned the house. Despite the extraordinary walnut library table, an early 20th century parlor set, mahogany bookcases, a mahogany bedroom set, a couple of couches, and miscellaneous tables and chairs, the house still looked miserably empty.

In the car, Ben had a bag of groceries, an easel, acrylic paints, and three blank canvases. It would be a working night and a chance to convey some further impressions of Atwood House. Although he’d been through the house several times, it was the library he liked most. One architectural feature that stood out was the ornate built-in bookcases with their heavy beveled glass doors and flashy brass pulls. Several boxes were stacked in one corner of the room, and after opening the first three, he decided these were books that had been left behind. He’d find time to sort through them later in the week.

For a few minutes, Ben’s first night in Atwood House seemed about to begin, until he realized he hadn’t brought an inhaler. Though his asthma was completely controlled and hadn’t bothered him during the last few years, he always felt more at ease when he had an inhaler. There was a drugstore no more than 15 minutes away. He’d get the prescription refilled, pick up some other things he needed, then return to spend his first night in Atwood House. When he returned an hour later, there was a car in the large circular drive and a young woman standing on the stone porch steps. It was Jenna Newland and she was holding something in one hand.

Coming down the steps rather hurriedly when she saw him , she yelled out a shaky, Hello.

Jenna, he answered.

Rikki asked me to drop this off. She forgot to give it to you this afternoon.

What is it? he asked, taking an unclasped folder and briefly glancing inside at what looked to be photocopies of newspaper articles.

She didn’t say . . . just said she thought you would find these interesting.

Thank you.

When I knocked on the door, it opened, but no one was there. Then I saw your car approaching.

He could tell by her expression that she was slightly shaken, and before speaking again, he glanced at the front door which was open slightly. I can assure you there’s no one in the house.

I heard footsteps, Jenna said deliberately. Before he could say another word, she was waving to him as she got into her car.

Thanks again, he called, watching the car drive away into the trees that buffered Atwood House from the highway.

Three steep dormers and three tall brick chimneys cut sharply into the purple sky. Evening shadows had already climbed high up on the front facade, muting the ornamental angular cuts of the cornices and corbels, and giving the impression that the dentils along the edge of the roof were dominos stacked in a long horizontal line. The last rays of sunlight lingered in the upstairs windows, while the bay windows on the main floor were flat, dull, and appeared more like those seen in black–and–white photographs of old houses. Suspicious eyes, the dormers stared down at him as he approached the house. Just for a moment, a dark shape was silhouetted in one window. When he looked again, there was only a gleam of pink sunlight.

Ben closed the door behind him and heard the lock snap shut. He didn’t think more about what Jenna had said until later. After setting the folder on the mantel beside the Klassy Kleen business card, he went into the kitchen to make coffee. Footsteps in an empty house . . . that just wasn’t possible.

Chapter 3

It was chilly in the house and heat off the burner felt good. Unsure about the tap water, he used bottled water for coffee. Recalling what Jenna had said, he shrugged his shoulders, dismissing footsteps as nothing more than her imagination. Even though the house did have a kind of eeriness about it, there was no reason at all to believe occupants from another time still walked the wooden floors.

Opening the folder that Jenna had given him, he was surprised to find several copies of newspaper articles dating as far back as 1905, and each had direct references to the Atwood property. There was no indication at all who had compiled these articles, or where Rikki had gotten them. Who would have taken so much time to locate them, and why? There were even pictures of the house taken several years after its construction in 1903. One picture showed a young woman standing on the back patio, looking at the lens of the camera. The photo appeared in a 1904 newspaper, The Boonville Enquirer, and though the resolution was grainy, the woman seemed to be standing in a beam of sunlight. and Ben thought her expression evocative, provocatively poignant.

The focus on the house was most likely the photographer’s primary interest, but it was the slender shape that dominated the picture. Dressed in black and holding a lacy parasol, her face partially concealed by a sort of blusher veil, she wore a feathery hat tilted to one side. The eyes, however, were clearly visible through the gauzy veil, and they looked intently at Ben Manning—so it seemed to him. The entire countenance of the woman struck him as familiar; but that was a thought quickly dismissed with the realization that she belonged to a past century.

William Atwood Dies in Motorcar Accident. Beneath this 1910 headline in the same newspaper were the details of a rather bazaar story of Atwood’s accident on a late summer night when he lost control of his car on State Road 66. There was an older passenger, James Alexander, with Atwood when the automobile went over the cliff into the Ohio River. Little information was given about Alexander, other than that he had worked for Atwood and was from Ferdinand, Indiana, visiting relatives in Newburgh at the time of the accident. There were mortuary photographs of both Atwood and Alexander that Ben considered offensive by contemporary journalistic standards—despite his doubt that propriety in journalistic standards prevailed at all.

Until his untimely demise at age 42, William Gilbert Atwood had been president of the First National Bank of Newburgh, one of only a few local banks to survive the Great Depression. For several years after the Depression, the house remained occupied by Atwood’s young wife, Anna, until 1955, when a young military officer returning from the Korean War, bought the estate with the intention of turning it into a hotel. Before renovations began, two of three investors got cold feet and plans for the hotel fell through, leaving the house vacant for several more years. It wasn’t until the 1960s that a young physician, David Young and his family purchased Atwood House and renovated much of it. The house stayed in the Young family until it was sold to an eccentric businessman who intended to make it into a gambling casino. But the businessman eventually abandoned the idea when he was unable to secure the necessary zoning permits. At some point in this legacy of owners, the realty company had obtained the property and once again Atwood House remained vacant until Ben bought it.

Unexpectedly, one story caught his eye. Apparently, there had been documented accounts of strange occurrences in Atwood House that began shortly after the Young family had purchased the property. The family frequently reported hearing footsteps, floorboards creaking, and doors opening and closing, especially late at night after they had gone to bed. The stately house soon took on the reputation of being haunted. No one really took it seriously, until one evening in June when ten-year-old Amanda Young was playing on the stone bridge near the house. She told her mother that a shadowy figure resembling a young woman in an old dress had passed her without saying a word.

Several years later, a story in the Evansville Courier reported alleged sightings of apparitions in the foyer and parlor. Members of the Young family had frequently observed ghosts and were afraid their children might be harmed. One account of a young woman in a long black dress was so vividly recounted that it read like the description of a visiting relative. Ben considered these accounts imagination, resulting from living too long in a large house surrounded by dark woods. He put the folder on the desk and went to bed.

Early Saturday morning, he cut and stacked nearly a cord of firewood. With cool evenings increasingly prevalent, he was already looking forward to the warmth of an evening fireplace. Anxious to engage Jenna’s cleaning services, he took the business card off the mantel, dialed one of the phone numbers printed there and waited for her to answer.

Klassy Kleen, declared a cheery voice.

Jenna?

This is Lacey. I’ll get Jenna for you.

Twenty seconds passed before Jenna answered the phone. Hello.

Ben Manning.

Hi, Ben. How’s that great big house?

Dirty . . . could you possibly work me into your schedule . . . soon?

Lacey and I can begin today if you like.

Terrific.

See you in an hour—if that works for you.

Works fine. Thanks, Jenna. The front door’s unlocked.

About an hour later when Jenna arrived, dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, a red apron, and a ball cap, with her blonde hair funneled into a ponytail through the opening at the back, she had another younger girl with her. Both women had big smiles and as they walked toward the front porch, Ben gave a slight wave.

Glad you called, Jenna said. We had nothing at all scheduled for today. This is Lacey Laurens.

Lacey was a couple years younger than Jenna but didn’t have the same perky demeanor. She was just kind of there. Quiet, pretty in an old-fashioned sort of way, she nodded and forced a smile before returning to the SUV to get supplies. Her dark hair caught the morning sunlight as she walked away from them.

How do you want to lay this job out? he asked.

Well, it’s certainly more than we can do in a day. Why don’t we start with the rooms on the main floor, she suggested, unless you want to do the house from the top down.

The upstairs rooms can wait, said Ben.

Any carpets that need cleaned?

Just a lot of dirty wooden floors, and the few pieces of furniture can be pushed aside easily enough.

It really is a beautiful house, admitted Jenna. I’ve been by it several times, but this is the first time I’ve been inside. Then after a slight pause, she asked, Are you going to put down carpet?

I have oriental rugs for all the rooms, except the great room. Don’t know what I’ll do there yet. Floor’s good, so will probably leave it like it is.

Standing in the doorway to the library, Jenna did a cursory survey of the large room. What are you going to do, if you’ll excuse me for asking, with those awful drapes?

Replace them, he smiled. They really are awful, aren’t they?

Well they’ve definitely seen better times.

Lacey brought in everything they’d need to clean the main floor and seemed anxious to begin. My God, this is a huge house, she declared.

Ben shrugged as he spoke. I suppose I could always rent some of it out, but not until I’ve had a chance to enjoy it, he joked.

Let’s get to it, Lace, Jenna suggested, giving Manning the impression that the two women were quite comfortable together.

I can help if you want, he told them.

Jenna looked at him a moment before saying, No, you’d just be in the way. If we need you, we’ll call.

Then, I’ll be cutting firewood.

The morning passed uneventfully. Ben cut, split and stacked firewood. Jenna swept, mopped and waxed the hardwood floors in the parlor, library, and great room, while Lacey cleaned the three bathrooms on the main floor. As Jenna was finishing up in the library, something shiny caught her attention. On the floor near the fireplace was an ornate brooch, silver, octagonal, and embedded with what looked to be small diamonds. After looking at it for a minute or so, she dropped the brooch into her apron pocket and went on with her work.

It was nearly five o’clock, and the sun was a sheet of orange draped over the branches of distant trees. When Ben came in, Jenna and Lacey were in the foyer. Both women stared at the stairway, which stopped at a large landing before splitting into two separate stairways leading to the upper rooms.

Lacey’s expression struck Ben oddly. She pointed to something on the landing. Eyes narrowed, face blanched, her hand shook as she pointed. Her body was noticeably tense, rigid, as though her feet were fastened to the floorboards. She was clearly frightened by something . . . but what?

There’s someone there, she declared anxiously. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she grabbed Jenna’s arm and shook it slightly. This house is not what it seems.

Psychic, announced Jenna. She sees things.

You’re not serious, replied Ben.

Look at her, Jenna told him. Does that look normal?

What? answered Manning, obviously confused by Lacey’s actions.

She looks scared out of her skin.

He looked at the staircase and landing. There’s nothing there.

There! Lacey shouted, her shaky hand and arm gesturing emphatically, wildly. There! she repeated, eyes still focused on the landing.

Again, he looked to where she was pointing, and again saw only stairs and the landing soaked in soft pink light that was coming in through the opening in the curtains. Eyes wide, complexion still paling, Lacey continued to point, while Jenna and Ben regarded each other curiously.

Do you see anything? he asked Jenna.

But before she could answer, Lacey whispered loud enough for both to hear, There’s a woman in a long dress standing with both arms stretched out in front of her, as though she’s waiting to hold someone.

Oh, my Lord, blurted Jenna. It’s her. It’s Anna Atwood.

Manning looked from one to the other for an explanation. What’s going on here?

Lacey began coughing as her head rotated in slow circles. Ben expected her to go into convulsions at any moment. He glanced at Jenna who was now laughing uncontrollably.

Very convincing, Jenna complimented.

Lacey dropped her arms, and she, too, began to laugh, Do you really think so? she giggled.

We really had you going, didn’t we? said Jenna. She’s auditioning for a part in a community theater production. Tryouts are next week. We thought this might be a good opportunity for her.

I’m sorry if I startled you, Lacey confessed apologetically.

Ben was looking at the landing. He took a couple steps closer to the stairs. My God, there really is someone there.

At first, both women seemed surprised, and looked at him suspiciously. Not smiling as he looked at them from the bottom of the stairs, he wanted them to know he was serious.

In the silence that followed, they heard a perceptible creaking . . . and the sound of footsteps coming closer to where they were standing. Although the heavy velvet curtains were parted slightly, the trailing tints of the evening sun were nothing more than purple stains on the oak staircase. In the center of a strange white light that was becoming increasingly intense, was a distinct image, and that image was coming down the stairs toward them.

More footsteps on the stairs. Then, before any of them could say another word, the walls began to shake. A door slammed shut somewhere deep inside the house. There was a tremendous gasp as though the house was exhaling. Whatever was happening was more than the spin of light and shadows . . . but was it more than progressive imagination? When the figure was only steps away from them, it suddenly became more indistinct, a vacillating shape about to vanish.

I don’t believe it! exclaimed Jenna who was visibly shaken. I saw it, but don’t believe it.

There was something . . . someone there, began Lacey . . . on the stairs.

Ben shook his head. There has to be a logical explanation.

Good luck with that . . . but if you figure it out, tell me, Jenna said. I just watched a person vanish into thin air, and there wasn’t anything logical about it.

A peculiar calmness settled in the house, as each attempted to gather their thoughts about what had just happened. Lacey was the most distressed, but even she had regained composure before speaking again. I feel like we’re being watched. Call it intuition if you want. But there is someone or something in this house watching us.

Late that same night, after Jenna and Lacey had left and the fire had burned low, he went outside to get more logs. That’s when he saw her. She was a distinct shape emerging out of the night and stopping near the stone bridge. For a moment, he thought it was Jenna Newland. Walking across the damp grass toward her, he suddenly hesitated, reluctant to take another step. There was something strange in the way the figure moved. With a full moon spreading its fire across the lawn, he pulled up his collar to keep out the cool night air. His shadow stretched in front of him as he came nearer the stone bridge.

Not more than 20 feet away, Ben tried to distinguish the face, which was partially concealed behind a black lace veil. She wore no coat, only a sweater with several buttons that resembled pieces of icy starlight. The hem of her dress touched the grass as she stood completely still, regarding him carefully. The wind stopped blowing in the trees. A rush of cold damp air sent a shiver through him, and the rattling inside him could have been his bones clattering. Suddenly, an eerie silence took hold of the night, and the only sound was his heart banging against his chest.

Please, I must find it. It was a fragile voice that reminded him of his mother’s crystal. Was she asking for his help—pleading for his help?

Before he could speak, she turned away from him, and after a few steps, vanished. It was as if she had entered a hole in the night, a deep cavernous hole that swallowed her while he watched. The cold damp air warmed. Frogs croaked. Crickets chirped. Stars blazed against a black sky. Moonlight burned silver on the grass, and still, he stood motionless, watching, hoping she would return.

After the fire had been replenished, he took up a sketch pad and began drawing the comely shape standing on the stairway, her arms stretched out in front of her. He left the face entirely without features. This was a preliminary drawing for the painting he would begin later that same night. He had recently stretched a new canvas, which was on the easel in the study. His earlier intention to paint a landscape had now changed. It would be a portrait of a mysterious woman who had appeared on the stairs and who had only minutes ago stood in the moonlight—a shadowy enigmatic shape that had spoken to him.

Chapter 4

Dr. Adrian White was napping on the couch when the doorbell rang. Professor emeritus, internationally respected authority on the Einstein Rosen Bridge, White looked much younger than his 70 years. Unshaven, with his dark hair uncombed, he stood erect in the doorway, his light gray eyes looking curiously at Ben Manning.

Once the two men were seated comfortably in White’s study, and with small talk out of the way, Ben felt his body relax. Adrian White, however, seemed a little apprehensive as he listened to Manning describe the mysterious figure he had seen appear and disappear, first on the stairway, and later, on the lawn—just a few nights ago.

I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Manning, but what you told me on the phone seems to me a pretty ordinary occurrence and not the mystery you seem to think it is. After all, people do come and go.

But they don’t just vanish into thin air.

You’re not a scientist are you?

I’m an artist, mostly landscapes.

We really are at opposite ends here. I deal with facts, while you deal primarily with imagination.

Dismissing White’s rather caustic remark, Ben asked seriously enough to keep the man’s